Speed Bump woke up late the next day to the sound of the Grackle in the home below screeching the same song she sang every morning. It was a tune from the old country about how much it hurt to lay a square egg. Elderly birds were so odd sometimes.
He took off his headphones, stretched his wings, and …
“Sorry, little bro, didn’t mean to scare you,” said Early Bird. “I brought you the last bite of the worm I got this morning.”
He squeezed the piece of worm. “There’s still a little juice left, I think.”
Speed Bump stared at the worm. He wanted it more than anything. But he just couldn’t take it. He’d promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn’t eat that worm until he’d earned it.
Not that he ever would earn it. Speed Bump and Early Bird might have been born at the same time, but they couldn’t have been more different. Speed Bump had been so sleepy that his mom had to knock on his shell to wake him up and tell him it was time to break out of his egg.
Early Bird, on the other hand, had been so strong and energetic that he taught himself to fly … before he even hatched.
“So?” Early Bird dangled the end of the worm. “You gonna try it for once?”
Speed Bump sighed. “Nah,” he said. “I promised I’d look for seeds and stuff with Slingshot.”
“More for me, then!” Early Bird threw the piece of worm in the air, then swallowed it in one gulp.
“Guess I’ll catch ya later, unless you catch me first! HA-HA! Maybe someday!” He was gone before Speed Bump’s stomach could finish rumbling.
Slingshot poked his head in the window.
“Wow, you look tired enough to molt. Another nightmare?”
“Nah, it was that ol’ Grackle singing. But my brother was just here, tempting me with a worm. I didn’t want it. Not really. I guess not.”
“Aw, c’mon, let’s go manger.” Slingshot bobbed and weaved his way to the ground.
Speed Bump fell like a stone from his window, wildly flapping his tiny wings to soften his plunge. He knew manger meant “to eat” in French, because that was Slingshot’s favorite thing to do.
squawked the Parrots. (They were on vacation from the jungle, visiting the Belted Kingfisher.)
swooned the Lovebirds.
agreed the Whooping Crane.
whispered a pair of Merlins.
The Hummingbird was impressed, but all she could do, of course, was hum.
On and on it went all day, just like it did every day. Finally, with the sun glowing behind the pine trees, and their bellies full of nuts and berries and seeds (and, in Slingshot’s case, a couple of mysterious things that he ate even though neither of them knew what they were), the friends went their separate ways home.
That night, with the birds’ words flying around in his head, Speed Bump had a harder time falling asleep than usual. He tried classical music, like Birdthoven’s Fifth Symphony. He tried jazz music and put on some Birdie Holliday. He even tried pop music and listened to Lady CawCaw. None of it could settle him down or block out the cruel voices of those Mockingbirds.
Speed Bump’s mother had always told him, “Never, ever, ever leave your nest in the middle of the night. The darkness is full of shadowy beasts that will eat you, and others that will squeeze you until you POP.”
Then her face would get even more serious. “And there are rumors of a giant bird with giant eyes and giant claws and a beak as sharp as a RAZOR! No, no, no, never go out at night.”
Of course, Speed Bump decided to leave his nest anyway. He knew it was definitely a bad idea, but he was all out of good ones.
